Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Played Brahms

Qwilleran had no way of knowing what clues the police had found in the sawdust or what progress they were making in the investigation. At the Daily Fluxion he could count on the police reporter to tip him off, but in Mooseville he was an outsider who registered alarm over a marauding owl or a dead rabbit or a body snagged by a fishhook. One thing was certain: The voice in the fog matched the voice on the cassette. If he could find that voice in Mooseville, he would have useful information for the investigators. Yet, the message on the cassette seemed to have nothing to do with the premeditated drownings.

Rosemary appeared on the porch. "Telephone for you, Qwill. It's Miss Goodwinter." He thought at once of perfume and dimples, but the pleasurable tremor subsided when he heard the attorney's grave voice.

"Yes, Miss Goodwinter… No, I haven't had the radio turned on… No! How bad?… Terrible! I can't believe it!… What is being done?… Is there anything I can do?… Yes, I certainly will. Right away. Where shall we meet?… In about an hour." "What's happened?" Rosemary demanded. "Bad news about Aunt Fanny. Sometime last night she fell down a flight of stairs." "Oh, Qwill! How terrible! Is she… She can't have survived. " He shook his head. "Tom found her at the bottom of the stairs this morning. Poor Aunt Fanny! She was so spirited — had such a youthful outlook. She enjoyed life so much. She never complained about being old." "And she was so generous. Imagine giving me a Staffordshire pitcher! I'm sure it's valuable." "Penelope wants me to meet her at the house as soon as possible. There are things to discuss. You don't have to go with me, but I'd appreciate it if you would." "Of course I'll go with you. I'll put the turkey back in the fridge." Before leaving for Pickax, Qwilleran latched all the windows and closed the interior shutters so that the cats could not be seen by a prowler. He locked front and back doors to keep them from the screened porches. "I'm sorry to do this to you guys," he said, "but it's the only safe way." To Rosemary he said: "Who would think such security measures would be necessary in a place like this?

I'm going to move back to the city next week. Now that Aunt Fanny's gone, the cabin might not be available to me anyway. That's probably what the attorney wants to discuss." "It was too good to be true, wasn't it?" "It would have been ideal — without the complications. But the simple country life is not all that simple. They'll razz me when I show up at the Press Club next week. I'll never live it down." When they arrived at the stone house in Pickax, Tom was working in the yard, but his head was bowed and he didn't wave his usual eager greeting.

Penelope answered the doorbell, and Qwilleran introduced his houseguest. "This is Rosemary Whiting. We were both stunned by the news." Rosemary said: "We lunched with her yesterday, and she was so chipper!" "One would never guess she would be ninety next month," the attorney said.

"Is this where it happened?" Qwilleran pointed to the staircase.

Penelope nodded. "It was a terrible tumble, and she was such a fragile little person. She had been having fainting spells, and Alex and I urged her to move into a smaller place, all on one floor, but we couldn't convince her." She shrugged in defeat. "Would you like a cup of tea? I found some teabags in the kitchen." Rosemary said: "Let me fix the tea while you two talk." "Very good of you, Miss Whiting. We'll be in the conservatory." They went into the room with the French doors and the rubber plants and Aunt Fanny's enormous wicker rocking chair. Qwilleran said: "Fanny called this the sun parlor." Penelope smiled. "When she moved back here after years on the East Coast, she took great pains to conceal her sophistication. She tried to talk like a little old granny, although we knew she was nothing of the sort… I phoned Alex in Washington this morning, and he told me to contact you, as next of kin. He can't possibly return until Saturday." "Fanny and I were not related. She was a close friend of my mother's, that's all." "But she referred to you as her nephew, and she had great affection and admiration for you, Mr. Qwilleran. She has no other relatives, you know." The attorney opened her briefcase. "Our office handled all of Fanny's affairs — even her mail, to protect her from hate mail and begging letters. She deposited a sealed envelope in our file, detailing her last wishes. Here it is. No funeral, no visitation, no public display, just cremation. The Picayune is running a full-page obituary tomorrow, and we plan a memorial service on Saturday." "Did she have a church affiliation?" "No, but she made annual contributions to all five churches, and the service will probably be held at the largest. It will be very well attended, I'm sure-people coming from all over Moose County." During the conversation the telephone rang frequently. "I'm not answering," Penelope said. "They're just curiosity-seekers. Legitimate inquiries will go to the office." Qwilleran asked: "What about the open-door policy that seems to prevail in these parts? Won't people walk into the house?" "Tom has instructions to turn them away." Then Rosemary served the tea, and conversation drifted into polite reminiscences. Penelope pointed out Fanny's favorite rocker. Qwilleran commented on her flair for exotic clothes.

Finally he said: "Well, everything seems to be under control here. Are you sure there's nothing we can do to help?" "There is one little matter that Alex said I should discuss with you." She paused dramatically. "We don't have Fanny's will." "What! With all that money and all that real estate — she died intestate? I can't believe it!" "We are positive that a holographic will exists. She insisted in writing it herself to protect her privacy." "Is that a legal document?" "In this state, yes… if it's written in her own hand and signed and dated. Witnesses are not required. That was the way she wanted it, and one didn't argue with Fanny! Naturally we advised her on the terminology to avoid ambiguity and loopholes. Its location should have been noted in her letter of instructions, but unfortunately…" "And now what?" Penelope looked hopefully at Qwilleran. "All we have to do is find it." "Find it!" he said. "Is that what you want me to do?" "Would you object strenuously?" Qwilleran looked at Rosemary, and she nodded enthusiastically. She said: "Fanny gave me a tour of the house yesterday, and I don't think it would be difficult." "Call me at the office if you have any problems," Penelope said, "and don't answer the phone; it will only prove a nuisance." Then she left them alone, and Qwilleran confronted Rosemary. "All right! If you think it's so easy, where do we begin?" "There's a big desk in the library and a small one in Fanny's sitting room upstairs. Also an antique trunk in her bedroom." "You're amazing! You notice everything, Rosemary. But has it occurred to you that they might be locked?" She ran to the kitchen and returned with a handful of small keys. "These were in the Chinese teapot I used for the tea. Why don't you start in the library? I'd like to tackle the trunk." That was a mistake, considering Qwilleran's obses- sion with the printed word. He was awed by the rows of leather-bound volumes from floor to ceiling. He guessed that Grandfather Klingenschoen tucked away a few pornographic classics on the top shelf. He guessed the library housed a fortune in first editions. On one shelf he found a collection of racy novels from the Twenties, with Aunt Fanny's personal bookplate, and he was absorbed in Five Frivolous Femmes by Gladys Gaudi when Rosemary rushed into the room.

"Qwill, I've made a terrific discovery!" "The will?" "Not the will. Not yet. But the trunk is filled with Fanny's scrapbooks as far back as her college days. Do you realize that dear Aunt Fanny was once an exotic dancer in New Jersey?" "A stripper? In burlesque houses?" Rosemary looked gleeful. "She saved all the ads and some 'art photographs' and a few red hot fan letters. No wonder she wanted you to write a book! Come on upstairs. The scrapbooks are all dated. I've just started." They spent several hours exploring the trunk, and Qwilleran said: "I feel like a voyeur. When she told me she was in clubwork, I visualized garden clubs and hospital auxiliaries and afternoon study clubs." Actually her career had been pursued in Atlantic City nightclubs, first as an entertainer, then as a manager, and finally as an owner, with her greatest activity during the years of Prohibition. There were excerpts from gossip columns, pictures of Francesco's Club, and photos of Francesca herself posing with politicians, movie stars, baseball heroes, and gangsters. There was no mention of a marriage, but there was evidence of a son. His portraits from babyhood to manhood appeared in one scrapbook until — according to newspaper clippings — he was killed in a mysterious accident on the New York waterfront.